Page 71 of Retrograde

“What’s your point?” she groans angrily, her breathing uneven.

“I fucking own you, Riley. You’re mine. I’m never letting you go.”

Pleasure coils through me at my words, tightening like wire.

“Say it, Riley. Say you’re mine. Say it.”

There’s something other than my orgasm building up inside of me, a swell of something even more powerful, more dangerous, like a caged beast clawing at the bars of its cage.

I grip her harder, yanking her up and down faster until I have her yelping, the pace too brutal for her to orgasm.

“Say it, you whore! If you want to come on my cock, then fucking say you belong to me.”

“Go to hell, Aron,” she hisses, her glazed eyes nearly rolling, her breathing ragged.

“Riley, I need to hear it. Now.”

Her mutinous glaze clashes with mine.

“Fine. Whatever. Yes, Aron, I belong to you now.”

My release rips through me at her words so suddenly and violently that I almost black out, every muscle in my body tensing. A guttural cry tears up my throat, my eyes watering. My grip on her flesh tightens, bruising and painful, but her only reaction to it is her own protracted moan as she shatters too, throwing her head back in a broken scream and arching her back.

Arms locked, we collapse around each other, lost in pleasure together, panting.

“Hey, Riley?”

“What?” she gasps as I ease my fingers out of her.

“I can’t explain it, but I think I made the tableaus for you.”

I meant to say because. Because of you. Not for. What the hell is wrong with me? I made it sound like some sick declaration of love. But she doesn’t seem put off by my word choice, limp and warm in my arms like a drowsy kitten.

“I know.” Her breath is hot on the side of my neck. “I think I’ve always known.”

“Riley?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you let me go? You had all the cards in your hand, all the aces. Why would you do that?”

She raises her head to look me in the face, her eyes sleepy and her hair damp. Before replying, she gives me a little smile—a smile that holds so much more than just plain satisfaction: sadness, serenity, surrender. And before the words even fall off her lips—so soft, so damning—the beast inside me reawakens to roar and roam free.

“Because now you’re my heaven as well as my hell.”

26

FOUR YEARS AGO, KAT VOLKOVA

“Damn kids, I’m warning you for the last time! If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll make you wish you were never born!” Dad’s angry voice booms from the next room, louder than the rain hammering against the windowpanes, louder than the thundering storm raging outside.

Fear squeezes my belly.

Tom and David, my stupid little twin brothers, burst through the frosted glass door and barrel into the stack of boxes with glassware I just spent the past hour wrapping in newspaper. Their contents scatter across the floor, some breaking.

“You dickweeds!” I jump up and dash after them.

But instead of catching them and giving them the pummelling they deserve, I collide with Dad. He grips my arm so hard it hurts, and his angry red face is so close to me I can smell the cigarettes, coffee, and booze on his breath. I already know this is very, very bad.